Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery)

by Roger Silverwood

  The insistent ‘brrr brrr’ continued.

  ‘Oh,’ she said and rushed back inside, past the painting of Sir Gregory Line, which dominated the oak-panelled hall, and up to the phone. She looked at the instrument a brief moment, wiped her hand on her overall then snatched it up.

  ‘Hello. Yes?’ she said, her eyes rolling from one side to the other, then back again.

  ‘Oh. Hello, Mrs Critchley, is my sister there?’

  The woman’s face brightened and she lowered her shoulders. ‘No. Oh, it’s Miss Selina, isn’t it?’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s lovely to hear from you. I can’t find her anywhere.’

  ‘Oh dear. Look here, Mrs Critchley. I must speak to her most urgently.’

  The woman’s eyes suddenly grew bigger. ‘I forgot, Miss Selina, you’ve got married, haven’t you?’ she said with a snigger. ‘Congratulations are in order.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’ll have to go,’ she snapped, and the line went dead.

  The smile left her. ‘Hello? Hello?’ she said then wrinkled her nose and replaced the phone. She thought Miss Selina very rude cutting her off like that. She had only congratulated her on her getting married. There was nothing wrong with that, surely? Stuck-up cow. Just because they were rich. She pursed her lips and tried to remember where she had left her duster. She looked up and unexpectedly saw the striking figure of her employer standing in the sitting-room doorway. It made her take in a sharp breath. Her mouth stayed open.

  Mrs Henderson stared at her. She wasn’t pleased. ‘Was that the phone?’ she said.

  ‘I tried to find you, Mrs Henderson. Honest. I called out. Went out on to the patio. It rang for ages.’

  The woman’s eyes stared piercingly at her. ‘You answered it?’

  ‘It was Miss Selina.’

  Mrs Henderson’s face went white. She stepped forward a pace. A hand went to her mouth. Her heart pounded like a drum. She gasped for breath. ‘Oh,’ she said quickly. ‘What did she want? Is she all right? Where was she speaking from? How was she? Is she ringing back? Oh dear. Oh dear.’

  *

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was PC Ahmed Ahaz. He was carrying an envelope.

  ‘Just heard back from Plymouth Constabulary, sir. They say there’s no such address as Flat 11, Nelson Buildings, Forthwith Road, Plymouth.’

  ‘Thank you. No surprise there, then.’

  ‘Also, this has just come in, sir,’ he said, handing him the envelope. ‘Special delivery. Looks urgent.’

  ‘Ta, lad,’ he said as he slipped a paperknife into the flap.

  Ahmed went out and closed the door.

  Angel opened the envelope, took out the letter and read it. It said:

  Dear Inspector Angel,

  Thank you for your letter of 26th June, and I am very sorry to hear of the death of Sir Max Monro. He seemed to be an entirely honourable gentleman.

  Regarding the ruby, I was not aware of the existence of such an important gemstone until he sent it to me in March 2004. He wanted me to value the stone for insurance purposes. When I examined it, I realized that this was not a stone that could be valued merely on a carat weight basis. It is of such clarity and of such a weight that it is on a par with gemstones in the British and Russian crown jewels. I therefore advised Sir Max of this in a letter and returned the stone on April 20th 2004 and made no charge for my services.

  I hope this information proves helpful.

  Yours sincerely,

  P. N. Fischer

  Angel put the letter down.

  He leaned back in the chair. He was grateful to P. N. Fischer for one thing. He had confirmed that the stone was genuinely of great value. It was now obvious that Nigel Monro had upped and off with it. With his money and the ruby, he could just about be anywhere in the world. Angel was wondering how he might try to find Monro and recover the ruby when the phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel,’ he said.

  There was a hoarse intake of breath, which he recognized as Detective Superintendent Harker.

  ‘Come up here,’ he said and then banged down the receiver. Angel wrinkled his nose. He replaced the receiver and sighed.

  He did not enjoy the interviews he had to endure from time to time with Harker, but he was his boss and he was expected to accept disciplinary direction from his superior in the same way that he doled it out to the ranks below him.

  He trudged up the green-painted corridor to Harker’s office and tapped on the door. He didn’t wait. He took a deep breath and pushed it open.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘There you are, lad,’ Harker said. ‘Sit down.’

  Angel stared at him. The man he was looking at behind that big desk was ugly. Of course, he had always been ugly. He must have been born bald and skinny. Angel looked at him strangely, though, at that moment, as if he hadn’t seen him before. The truth was that he saw him almost every working day, sometimes ten times a day. But today was different. The head he could see sticking up through the ill-fitting check shirt with the limp collar looked just like a skull with ears and a chin.

  ‘Well, sit down. What I have to say is extremely important.’

  Angel observed him. Harker stuck a white plastic inhaler up a nostril, sniffled noisily, pulled it out, pushed it in the holder and put it in his pocket. He sniffled again then expanded his face in a sort of a smirk — he never smiled — to signify satisfaction with the operation.

  ‘Sit down, Angel,’ the skull said. ‘What are you gawping at? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Harker reached out for a pink sheet of A4 from a wire basket on the desk in front of him. He peered down at it. He read it then reread it, looked up at Angel and said, ‘I’ve a confidential email from the Met. It’s for senior police officers only. Privileged information. But you might as well know about it. There’s a man wreaking havoc among villains throughout the UK. The Met don’t name him because they don’t know it. He is referred to as The Fixer. Have you heard your villains or your snouts speak of him?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, they might. The Fixer is said to look so ordinary, so average, so respectable, that nobody has a clue who he is. Yet he is thought to have murdered at least eight men. The Met have heard something of his plans via a judge from judges’ chambers. That’s why it’s confidential. The info is that he is up our way now. That’s why they are giving us notice. In return for which they expect us to reciprocate with any information, however slight, of any sort about him.’

  ‘How did he murder these men, sir?’

  ‘Walther PPK/S 32 automatic. He’s a crack shot. Never misses. Watch out for him.’

  Angel thought about it. He frowned. Hadn’t he just said that nobody knew what he looked like? How could he watch out for him?

  Harker put the email down, placed his arms on the desk and said, ‘Now then. This next matter is very serious. I’ve been checking our postal franking machine bill for last month and it’s enormous. It’s getting quite out of hand. I’ve been checking down some of the recent entries and among many various amazing charges, I found a charge for an airmail to Antwerp. The civilian in the postroom tells me it’s down to you. Who the hell are you writing to in Antwerp?’

  ‘That’s in connection with that missing ruby, sir. Sir Max Monro—’

  ‘Sir Max Monro?’ he said ponderously. ‘He’s dead, and he was a very old man. I don’t suppose there ever was a ruby. Figment of his imagination. There’s no crime, is there? Who was robbed?’

  ‘Well, the ruby has disappeared and the rightful owner —’

  ‘Oh yes. A foreign woman.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. His mouth dropped open and the muscles round his jaw and throat tightened like a bear-trap. ‘A princess,’ he snapped. ‘A royal princess.’

  ‘Who says she’s a royal princess? Anyway, we’re not running a lost property office, Angel. I think you’re losing sight of the real purpose of your job. Crime and murder is your busin
ess. Drop this lost property inquiry. From now on, I want you to utilize your time solving murder cases, and getting villains like the Corbetts behind bars.’

  ‘But while the man was dying, sir — I didn’t realize it then — Sir Max asked me to take possession of the ruby, and —’

  ‘But the ruby wasn’t there, was it?’

  ‘No, sir. It wasn’t. He asked me to —’

  ‘Well, you can’t proceed if you can’t find the ruby, can you?’

  ‘But I made a sort of promise. Not a promise, as such, but a commitment to see that the stone went to the right person and that’s what I intend to do.’

  ‘You gave him your word?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s all right. So it’s a personal thing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very commendable, I’m sure. But you didn’t give him my word, lad, nor the chief’s word, nor the force’s word, nor the taxpayer’s word. Whatever private arrangement you made with the dead man is up to you. But it has nothing to do with your work here.’

  Angel’s jaw tightened. He felt his stomach thrashing round like a washing machine with a difficult load. Unusually, he couldn’t think of anything useful to say.

  ‘And as the man is dead,’ Harker said, ‘and there isn’t actually a ruby and there isn’t actually a princess to give it to, your undertaking seems to me to be totally null and void, wouldn’t you say?’

  The washing machine thrashed more wildly and his pulse began to bang out in his ears. He still couldn’t think of a sensible thing to say. He didn’t agree but he couldn’t immediately counter the apparent logic of what Harker had said.

  ‘So leave that. You can leave these trivial cases in permanent abeyance. Anyway, what usually happens is that — given sufficient time — they tend to come to a natural conclusion. Well, now let’s get back to this case of the assault at The Feathers. What is the common link between the four victims?’

  Angel’s mind was still on Sir Max and the ruby. ‘I can’t find one, sir,’ he said automatically.

  ‘Can’t find one? All the modern technology and forensic available to you and you can’t find one?’

  ‘Can’t find one, sir.’

  ‘You must be looking in the wrong…place.’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said, because it was the easiest thing to say.

  Harker’s eyebrows shot up. He was amazed at his answer. ‘Oh? Well, stick with it. Persistency pays. We all know that. Keep at it. That’s all for now, lad. Better get back to it.’

  Angel came out of the office, closed the door and stormed down the green corridor, his mind in turmoil. He was met by Ahmed. ‘There’s a phone call for you, sir, from Wakefield FSU.’

  Angel frowned. The FSU was the Firearms Support Unit, the armed branch of the police force for this area including Bromersley. He couldn’t begin to imagine what they needed to phone him about. He forgot all about Harker. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  He reached his office and picked up the phone.

  ‘DS Jock Keene here, sir. Sorry to bother you, but you haven’t been to the small arms range for almost six months now. I thought you would want to be reminded. I expect you want to maintain your certification.’

  Angel’s mouth dropped open. Wow! This was important. He certainly did. He mustn’t lose his licence to carry a handgun.

  While use of firearms in the Bromersley force was normally entirely in the hands of the FSU at Wakefield, there were certain specified circumstances when suitably trained policemen and women might be armed. Angel wanted to be certain that he would be among the ones authorized.

  ‘Oh yes, Jock, indeed I do.’

  ‘Well, you need to get practice time in and six bulls before the twenty-first. That only gives you today or tomorrow, and I can’t do you tomorrow because I’ve fourteen rookies to get through.’

  ‘Today?’ he said and rubbed his chin. There was such a lot pending. He liked firing a gun on the practice range. It was relaxing. The change would do him good, and he must retain his licence at all costs.

  ‘Two o’clock looks good, sir.’

  Chapter Four

  It was five minutes to two.

  Angel found a parking space in the police yard in Wakefield and drove the BMW into it. He reported to reception, proved his identity, waited for the clerk to make a phone call, then he was escorted outside the building by a uniformed PC. They walked through the car park, passed two new redbrick buildings which were dedicated to the selection, training and veterinary services of police dogs, then across another parking area packed with police vehicles including specialized transporters for police horses and 4 x 4 Range Rovers with close netting across the windows ready for use in riot situations. They reached an isolated windowless building with iron doors. It had ‘No Parking’ signs all the way round it. The PC rang the bell then both of them looked directly sideways to the right. There were no buildings, telegraph poles or trees for several hundred yards, but they both knew there was a camera out there somewhere, with a super-duper extra-powerful lens.

  After a few moments, there was a clang, the iron door was released and they made their way through it, pulling it shut behind them.

  There were two doors inside. One had the word ‘Armoury’ on the door and the other the words ‘Small Arms Range’.

  The PC went through the right-hand door then into an office.

  DS Keene was at a desk. He stood up and nodded at Angel. The PC handed Angel over to Keene as if he was delivering a parcel. He produced a chitty which Keene signed, then he went out.

  ‘Glad you made it, sir. Can’t have you unlicensed,’ Keene said. ‘I’ll get you kitted out straightaway.’

  ‘Thank you, Jock,’ Angel said, looking round. He was surprised to discover that he was nervous even though he had been through this routine many times and almost always passed first time. Thoughts about his eyesight were at the back of his mind. He had never thought he needed spectacles but that requirement with age came to many people.

  Keene went through a steel-barred door to the other side of the office and came out carrying a pistol, a box of rounds and two pairs of ear protectors. He crossed in front of Angel and said, ‘Right, sir. I’ve got everything. Come on through.’

  Angel said nothing and followed him out of the office door into a short passageway, then through another door into darkness. He heard the click of switches and a powerful floodlight illuminated the nearest part of the range.

  Twenty-five yards down the range, in a row, were six life-size wooden cut-outs of men in silhouette, numbered one to six, with bullseye targets painted on the head, chest, forearm and leg.

  Keene put a Glock G17 hand pistol, a box of fifty rounds of ammunition and two pairs of ear protectors on the counter rail facing the target and moved about a yard away to Angel’s left and behind him.

  Then he said: ‘In your own time, load.’

  Angel put on the ear protectors, picked up the pistol and squeezed the handgrip. It felt good. He knew that Keene was watching him and would be marking him for the confidence and dexterity he showed in handling the gun, in loading the magazine, as well as his skill at hitting the targets. He didn’t want to fluff anything.

  He knew of a fellow officer who had been refused a licence because in the course of loading a magazine he had knocked an open box of rounds off the counter rail and they had rolled round the floor. The examiner had good reason; he said that in the time it took to pick up the rounds, fill the magazine and load the gun, he could have been shot twenty times. Angel didn’t intend to be the victim of any of his own carelessness.

  He gripped the pistol securely by the barrel and pressed the catch at the bottom of the handgrip to release the magazine. He carefully loaded it with seventeen rounds. He had counted them. He knew it was the maximum the magazine would hold. He pushed the magazine back into the handgrip until he heard and felt it click, then he placed the loaded gun down on the rail, muzzle facing the ta
rget, and put his hands down by his sides.

  ‘Gun ready,’ he said.

  ‘Now remember, sir, using number one target lane. You need to hit at least six consecutive bullseyes to pass. Also you must use all four targets in descending sequence. Starting with the head, then the chest, then the arm, the leg and then back to the head again. And give me time to call out the result of each shot before you fire again. All right?’

  ‘Yes. Right,’ Angel said and put on a pair of the ear protectors.

  Keene leaned forward, picked up the other pair, set them on his head then said, ‘In your own time, beginning at the top target, fire.’

  Angel picked up the gun, gripped it tight, held it out in front, aimed it at the top target and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed round the building. His hand jerked back and up.

  Keene looked at the target through a pair of binoculars and said, ‘That’s an outer.’

  Angel pulled a face, readjusted his hold on the handgrip, steadied his aim and fired again.

  ‘An inner,’ Keene said.

  It was still not good enough. Angel fired again.

  ‘Bullseye,’ Keene said.

  And again.

  ‘Bullseye.’ And again. ‘Bullseye.’ And it went on. ‘Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye. Cease firing. That’s your six, sir. More than six. That’s great. Cease firing. Cease firing!’

  But Angel kept pulling the trigger. And again. And again. And again.

  ‘Cease firing!’ Keene yelled louder, then he leaned forward and put his hand on Angel’s wrist, the wrist holding the gun. Angel stopped firing and looked round at him.

  ‘Cease firing,’ Keene said. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Cease firing. You must stop firing when I give you the command “Cease fire”. Anyway, you’ve got your licence.’

  Angel sighed. He’d got his licence. That was great.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said as he took off his ear protectors. ‘I must not have heard you.’

  He put the gun on the rail in front of him. Keene didn’t believe him. He peered closely into his eyes as he turned away.

  Angel had heard him all right, but for some reason he had wanted to keep on firing. He had enjoyed pulling that trigger, hitting bullseyes and seeing the targets move as the lead hit them. He could happily have gone on and emptied the magazine.